


Bury Me Low

by Englass



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Doki Doki AU, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Sexual Content, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Possessive John, Yandere, Yandere John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 12:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englass/pseuds/Englass
Summary: It was just a game.It wasn't supposed to be like this.It wasn't supposed toendlike this.
Relationships: John Seed/Reader, John Seed/You
Kudos: 94





	Bury Me Low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> Originally inspired by YandereDad's Doki Doki AU.

The air is stale, thick as congealed tar and laced with an underlying bitterness, a metallic twang that taps at the tongue like a beater to a triangle. It rings on the taste buds, defined but not completely obvious at first taste. There is a sickly sweet aroma that also intermingles with the varied smells, a spray of too much perfume that has bile fingering the back of your throat, invasive and acidic.

Your breath stutters at every breath you take, staccato bursts that you work feebly to get a handle on; deep inhales followed by slow exhales that each catch on one another as you quiver. Hands clasp tightly to your chest, fisting at your well-loved jumper in a poor attempt at comfort, as you plead with watery eyes for your drumming heart to let up in its relentless beat; so tight and tangled within the box of your chest that it physically hurts, battered in its gruelling journey so far.

A ghostly touch plays on the keys of your spine like a piano, perfectly tuned to elicit the sweetest response out of your quaking form. It is a perverted blend that gets you to play so beautifully, a radiating fear that feeds off of wild assumptions and known tellings in equal abandon, lingering beneath the residual chill of the metal maze that you find yourself lost in. A rat in brutal testing.

Pressing tightly between a cluster of wooden crates, joints aching at how tightly wound they are, you tilt your head back to glance at the ceiling of your metal tomb. Red engulfs the walls, emergency lights painting bloody lines into the bends and crevices, haunting shadows reaching out from darkened corners just out of sight, but never far from mind. Dread creeps like a devouring ivy beneath your skin, pushing into the foundations as they burrow deep, carving a place for themselves as they watch on uncaringly as their host falls to ruin.

The walls moan gloomily, rattling echoes that cast a despairing spell throughout the ants nest of a bunker. Winding paths stretching on, dull and never ending, leading to nowhere but subjugation. Cages made of steel and sin, rooms of iron and blood; intentions paved by pain and falsehoods. Crude promises of salvation mar the walls with sharp words, cutting in image as they are from tongue. The bunker is empty, hollow, so cold and distant, and it nurtures the moulding terror in your marrow with a soggy touch.

A writhing shiver worms at the base of your neck, teasing your body into tensing before refusing to rise to the horrifying occasion that you have found yourself trapped in. It sits in a twisted anticipation that has you twitching.

With a wrecked sigh you bow your head, body sliding weakly down the wall, to press into the pad of your bent knees; curling in on yourself as a headache pounds cruelly behind your eyes. Thoughts rearing against thoughts, logic gasping in the face of the illogical, as your instincts war over the other in a harrowing cry for action; or a lack thereof.

_This can’t be happening…_

Leaving the soft comfort of your jumper, an old buy that feels too long ago, your hands trail to cup over your eyes, shielding them from the crimson dyed world you are now a part of; nails scratching at skin as your fingers grip for purchase. Something to hold on and weep to. A new wave of tears threatens to get the better of you, teeth biting hard into your bottom lip at the situation you are stuck in. An anguish so raw, and a loneliness so visceral, that you can not help the clawing sob that they retch from you. The idea that you can never leave, that you are forever stuck and may very well die down here, is suddenly a very real and terrifying one.

Taking a deep breath you raise your head back, bashing it gently into the metal wall behind you, the sound small enough that there is only a fleeting second of worry, as you hiss out a broken curse between your teeth. Another quickly follows, bashing the back of the head a little harder as your jaw tightens and your teeth ground against each other, a bite of anger slipping into the deluge of your despair. Blinking hard in an effort to ease the sting and fatigue from your eyes you suddenly wish you had not run, had just sat there and let him do whatever it was he was planning to do. He was right after all; you are trapped. There is nowhere else to go.

With a deep and rickety breath you press yourself into the crate beside you, concentrating on the rough wood digging into you as you try to remember how you got out of this world all the times before this. You are not sure exactly how it worked, but it seemed to be based on the concept of ‘Will’ if you understood it well enough. A theory that you would quietly talk to yourself about as you paced back and forth in your bedroom with bitten nails and a ticking mind: the more you focused and willed yourself to leave the quicker you could. The only problem was that every time you caught yourself here (not _here_ here, but in this world as a whole) you found it getting harder and harder to pull yourself back out. As if it was chipping at something within you that you could not touch nor protect.

Quickly, it became a painful cycle.

While nursing a bloody nose after another fateful escape, one that had taken far longer than any before it, you had figured that they were getting stronger, that their influence was steadily growing. Every time you found yourself here they were more prepared, able to keep you locked down for longer while you struggled to evade and escape. Always on your tail, always talking and propositioning– near on begging for something that you were not willing to give to them.

You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be a part of their twisted fantasies; you didn’t want them constantly taking you every time your mind wandered. You didn’t want to be the flu shot that was gradually immunising them against you. It wasn’t fair that while you had gotten weaker, lost control over something that you owned and had held dear, that they had only gotten stronger. They were now at that point were they could change and mould the world however they wanted it; free to hack into the code and make it all a special playground just for them. Their very own Eden.

Only the truth is they never got stronger.

A low whine eases against your throat, a sound full of shame, arms wrapping around to hold onto yourself tightly as you nurture your still bleeding pride. You had thought yourself so sure, knew how this world worked and what you had to do to get out of it. Foolishly, you had started to grow accustomed to the abrupt trips to the County beyond the screen; became frustrated as your fear at the unknown and unbelievable began to grate against the uncanny familiarity you were forced to face against every other day. Shamefully, arrogantly, you had thought yourself in control. That you were better. That this was your game (you were real, they weren’t) and therefore you had a say in it. You had a _choice_.

They made sure to prove you wrong.

For a second you find yourself broken away from your helpless thoughts, a question on the brain as you listen into the dying silence; a new sound suddenly prowling the halls. With a sharp jolt you look up, eyes wide and ears open as a familiar tune slinks against the walls. Sharp and high it cuts through the labyrinthian bunker better than any blade, the telltale hiss of a particular breed of serpent making your blood freeze with a revitalised fear.

_He’s here._

Your breath picks up, short bursts that you try to keep quiet at the expense of your shaking heart, as you war over what to do; do you cut your losses now, hand yourself over and get it done with, or do you just keep running until one of you finally gives up the ghost?

Truly, it’s a pointless battle.

You know he won’t give in. He’s committed, ruthlessly so. Sadly, you’re not. You are already so exhausted, pushing yourself past limits you shouldn’t be crossing in a failing bid to escape from this hell-scape. Trying to find a freedom that is now nigh on impossible. How much longer can you really go on for? How long until your legs collapse from underneath you, until your wailing from the weight of your own body? You don’t imagine it’s much longer if you’re actually thinking of giving in.

It’d be so easy. Just one word, just one small word, and this chase would be over. This cruel game of cat and mouse finally brought to a close. But the humiliation, the embarrassment you’d face… the last vestiges of your wounded pride shiver at the thought. Despite all of this, all that you’ve been and are now going through, your pride still holds as tall and firm as an old king refusing to give up his crumbling throne; even in the face of irrefutable defeat.

What a petulant child they are.

Before you can even decide whether to bolt from your fortress of crates or remain tucked against them like a mouse hiding from the local cat the decision is taken from you, an evenly paced tapping beating to the viper’s hiss. Whatever chance you may have had is now slipping through your fingers like water, and worryingly enough you are not too sure how you feel about that.

The tapping stops, a loud and final ring that brings with it the weighted anticipation of a gong announcing an awaited sacrifice; pure and virginal and a promised meal for a beastial deity. Slowly and shakily your hands move to cup over your mouth, vainly attempting to soften your breathing as it races to compete against your quaking heart. Eyes wide and dilated as you silently beg to whatever god that lays beyond and within this coded space to show you even an ounce of mercy, to get _him_ to walk away and leave you be.

You should know by now that no such god exists.

Catching the faintest ruffle of what sounds suspiciously like clothing you bury yourself as much as you can between the crevice of the crates, praying that your dark clothing will be enough to shield you from his keen eyes. He is much closer than you assumed he was if you can hear the shifting of his clothes, the sharp ‘tsk’ of his serpentine tongue as he stands meters away, unmoving.

The silence that follows the universal reprimand does nothing to quell your rattled heart, barely containing a strangled whimper as a hollow buzz washes through the bunker. White noise staining the walls in static sounds that reverb and move like roiling maggots, chewing at the mind as if it is a festering carcass, as you get lost in its numbing haze. Time unknowable and inconceivable.

You very nearly jump out of your skin when the silence shatters, your heart tripping over its own beat as ice burns through the blood in your veins, sharp and needling. A new wave of despair pins you down like an avid butterfly collector would their treasured specimens when he starts to speak; his voice as refined as a blood-cut diamond and laced with powdered bone. Darkened promises that speak threats of painted gold lurking within the underground twang of his muted accent.

“Dearest,” he drawls with a mocking lilt, tone a soured saccharine that faintly echoes throughout the bunkers skeleton, “as much as I love a good chase I do believe it is about time for you to come home. I didn’t exactly appreciate you running out on me like that after all; you hurt my feelings. Although I must admit, you certainly caught me off guard. I didn’t take you to be the rash sort, but I suppose we are still getting to know each other after all.” A secret chuckle ricochets through the bunker, a bitter admission that sands down into a blissful sigh.

“But, that’s alright. I’m not angry; this is all so new to you that you merely got cold feet. Joseph always tells me that I have to have patience, that I need to give you time, and that with it you will eventually come to us. You’ll come to _me_. And yet,” his tone twists, snaps into a restrained snarl, a bite of annoyance. “I _have_ given you time. I _have_ given you space, free reign within my own little piece of Eden, and yet you are _still not here_. You still refuse to listen to me, refuse to accept me and everything I could give you! I could-”

He cuts off, holds his tongue and lets the space fill with a pregnant pause that tugs the walls in tighter; crowds the already cramped space until it chokes. There is a faint shuffle, a shift in movement, before he speaks again.

“However,” he sighs, anger drained but forever lurking like an eldritch horror, “we– _I_ have ways been very good at making people listen, showing them the errors of their ways and helping them down a greater path so that they may be set free. Helping to cut out the sins that they bury so low within themselves, an infectious collection of dirty secrets just begging to see the light. To be ripped out for all to see and bare witness to! And you? Oh dearest,” the hiss of a laugh between the viper’s fangs overshadows the affectionate purr of the endearment, turning it sour and rotten, “you harbour the prettiest collection.”

You are not too sure how to respond to such a comment, wide-eyed and as petrified as you are, but you do find yourself slightly thankful in the knowledge that he hasn’t quite found you yet. Although, how long he will put up with your resistance is a beast you would rather not think about. John is eager – ravenous – in his desire for attention (attention you unknowingly fed him), and there is nothing more terrifying than a man with nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“And I understand,” his chuckle is low, a drag around his words that would make you question whether he truly does or not, “oh truly, I understand. This must all be so… _deeply_ overwhelming for you, darling. You must be so scared, lost in my bunker, lost in a world that you thought you knew. Thought that you understood,” he ‘tsk’s’ something disappointed; a pitying reprimand for someone who doesn’t know better. “But, you don’t. You are still young, riddled with the temptations of sin; the promise of something less than glorious. You don’t understand. You don’t _see_. But that’s alright. You will. All you have to do is accept the truth. Accept the Word of The Father into your heart – accept _me_ and all that I can offer you…

“I can keep you safe. I can you give everything you have ever wanted, anything in the world and I can give it all to _you_! You have a choice here, darling. So, either you keep yourself in denial, connected to a world that does not care or want you, refusing to make a choice just as you are right now between those crates-” what, “_Or_, you could be a good little girl and come to me willingly. Accept the truth – the _devotion_ that I can give you, that I _want_ to give you, and this little game of ours can very well end. All you have to do… is say _yes_.”

The silence hangs, his tongue dragging lecherously around his favoured word; skimming along the walls as a rising sun, filled with the promises of an ill fated day ahead, dawns within you. He knows where you are. That revelation alone is enough to scare you solid, any half-conceived plans falling to ash in the wake of his admittance. Just what do you do now? Surely there’s nowhere left to run to, and even if there is how do you get there; where do you go?

What do you do?

“I won’t ask again, dearest,” he chimes with a dark lilt. “You are testing my patience as it is; _do not_ keep me waiting.”

Still and racing, empty and stuffy, your thoughts get caught in the crossfire of your vibrating nerves. So violent in their frequency you start to feel dizzy, off kilter, as your head pounds and your stomach rolls.

The silence lays thick for an agonising beat.

“For fucks sake!” His shout makes you jump, the following bang, quick on its tail and roaring through the bunker, makes you scream. Blinded by fear you don’t even realise you’ve made a dash for it until you go sliding around a corner, shoulder bashing roughly into the jut of a bunker wall, the corner of a crate catching your hip, as you stumble and cry out.

_Fuck, fuck, **fuck**!_

You hear the spoiled call of your name, a tangled mess of interwoven threats and lacing pleas that do nothing but push you to run faster, to get out – to get as far away as you possibly can.

_This wasn’t supposed to happen, this was never supposed to happen!_ You feel the panic rise with the speed of a broken dam, rapid and crushing, as the walls narrow and the air fizzles and the bunker keeps going and going and _going_.

_This isn’t real it can’t be real, dear god don’t let this be real–_

You startle, exclaim, try to stop, trip, collide into a stack of crates that weren’t there but now are. Vaguely you see them shimmer, iridescent flashes that glitch with shapes and textures that don’t belong until they do. The air warbling as if impersonating a mirage as different scents flutter in and out, change and remain, swap and shift, until it settles on that initial metallic twang, underlined with something sweet with the faintest brush of an ensnaring spice that looks to pull and hold; never let go.

One crate topples over, shakes loose from the mountain it is a part of, as you grip your bruising arm with gritted teeth and wet cheeks. It’s tender, your whole body feeling beaten and exhausted, as you slide down against the remaining crates. Legs giving in with the loss of your momentum. The wood scraping against the cotton of your jumper as you deliberately press into the stack of crates to keep yourself standing; hunched over your throbbing arm as you cradle it against your abdomen.

A dreadfully familiar voice chimes throughout the now tunnel of a bunker, malicious mirth buried low within the undertones of a plastic sympathy. A show decorated with a spiteful substance that you know, with unquestionable certainty, will burn you worse than any acid ever could.

Your eyes close tightly with the sharp prick of defeated tears.

“See? I told you that you didn’t understand, dearest. This is _my_ world now, _my_ Eden, not yours to run around and play pretend in; this is _mine_. And if I want to keep you locked up within it, within my home or my bunker, safe from the intentions of my brothers and anyone else that would _dare_ to come between us, then… well,” his chuckle is low, head ducked as he looks at you with electrical eyes; charged on greed and sparking with sudden flashes of lust and muted flares of wrath, “I will damn well do so.”

No response could do the utter insanity behind his declaration justice. The only thing you are even able to utter is a hushed and broken, “you’re crazy.”

For a second John tenses, screwed too tight with a primal and instinctual need to lash out, to correct and reprimand. Only as quickly as he tenses does he visibly relax, the tension coiled tight like an aggravated snake within him loosening in its constricting hold; huffing a breath of a laugh as his expression lightens, turning into a soft and fond smile. Under a different circumstance, not drowned within crimson lighting and buried low beneath the map, he would no doubt look absolutely breathtaking.

“Only for you, dearest.”

That is far from a comforting thought.

You shake your head, a slow and terrified rejection as you feebly try to bury yourself into the crates behind you; trapped at a dead end. Tears running fresh trails down your cheeks as a heavy hopelessness begins to physically weigh you down, slivers of a fleeting courage draining like water spilt from a shattered glass.

John must be able to see the cold realisation on your face, the dreadful fate that you are still pitifully trying to reject despite the hollowed acceptance that you have reached, as he takes a step toward you. You only hug yourself tighter, allowing yourself to fully slide to the floor on aching joints; knees pulled stiffly to your chest. Eyes falling downcast as he stops in front of you, kneeling on bended knee.

For a moment nothing happens; the silence chiming like a ceremonial bell as the bunker groans like a sleeping giant on every toll. Creaking and moaning as your thoughts go painfully still, stale and empty. Despair chewing through you until there is nothing but a gloomy void in its place; a swallowing maw.

Flinching you glance up, eyes caught in a tangled web of stark blue; a mirrored maze of crystallised turquoise that gleams on cut and unpolished edges, raw and unrefined, masquerading as the smoothest of gems welded onto the finest of crafted metal.

John’s oceanic eyes never leave yours as his fingers skim against the apple of your cheek reverently; water changing, ebbing and flowing, as emotions dance like fading stars.

With a startling amount of focus John watches, tantalised and near disbelieving, as his fingers explore your features; the pads of his fingers trailing unhurried paths across your nose, cheek, jaw and down your neck. If he notices the way you jump and flinch at his feathered caresses he doesn’t comment, merely continuing until his free hands joins the other in its exploration.

Following down – lingering on where your collarbone lies shielded by your jumper – his hands flatten against your arms, rubbing a brief, and intended, comforting touch against you before sliding down the line of your arms; stopping, contemplatively, at your wrists. With ease your slim wrists fit effortlessly within the bars of his light, but caging grip.

Shifting his hold slightly he raises your wrists to press them against the bunker wall and beside either side of your head, fingers loosely curled in a surrendering gesture, as he edges forward, invading your space to press his forehead against your own; his nose brushing against yours in a faint display of affection. His deep and blissful sigh does not go unnoticed.

Fearfully you allow the contact, the potential consequences that could very well be brought down upon you if you weren’t to allow it running rampant. You don’t even realise you are trembling, whining quietly within your throat like a frightened puppy, until you feel the gentle pressure of John’s thumb against the pulse of your wrist; drawing indiscernible patterns, back and forth, as he cooes adoringly at you.

“Shh,” he soothes, crowding closer, “it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay; I’m here now, dearest. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

He reluctantly pulls away a few inches, eyes twinkling chasms formed from frozen seas. His smile is serene, a loving expression that looks to put the mind at ease, but is tipped with an edge of something that you can only describe as erratic; restrained, but vibrating. A rotary blade buzzing hungrily.

There is a strange stillness that ripples between the both of you; a heaviness that darkens his eyes a shade or two, makes them glint within the abyss, before he glances down at your lips. Suddenly, you find yourself reminded of why you ran in the first place. Why, with invisible hands on your shoulders – pushing and shoving and guiding, you had bolted from his home and found yourself lost within the endless maze of his bunker; manipulated codes glitching and looping as he saw and sees fit.

With a tightening chest you take in a shuddering breath, shrinking in on yourself as your eyes sting with the onset of fresh tears. There lies no comfort in them.

“Please,” you plead with fear-ridden eyes, water in your voice, “don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

“But I do,” a smile plays on his lips, the end of a failed laugh trailing into something weaker and uncertain; doubting. “How else would you stay with me otherwise?”

There is something so broken in the way he says it, so raw and heart wrenching that you go cold. With a disjointed interest you watch as his Adam’s apple bobs with an anxious swallow, his aqua eyes tracking your every flicker of emotion with an obsessive intensity. Slowly, cautiously, you shake your head.

“This isn’t how you get someone to stay.”

“Then what will!” His grip tightens, jostles you in sudden flare of rage, ocean eyes ablaze with frozen fury and a horrendously hidden hurt. “I try to be nice. I try to have patience, but you do nothing but resist me. You do nothing but say no– just say yes! Please, for fucks sake, just say _yes_!”

A cry catches in your throat as your head collides with the wall, hands feebly flailing to shake off his hold as you twist, attempt to stand and dash; body wailing at the strain, begging you with creaking bones and stiffened joints that have you crying in distress. He only pushes closer, allows you to shift and struggle until he’s above you, pinning and straddling your hips; his breath fast and frantic, daring and desperate as you go still and tense and cry beneath him. Ocean eyes widen, spark and glitter, engulfing you in waves that look to submerge and drown. The light of an acquired realisation turning those shallow waters deep.

“Please,” he whispers in a hoarse voice, accent drooling as his eyes dart between every feature, “please let me do this. Let me prove how good we could be together; how good I could be for _you_. You don’t need anyone else, but me, dearest. Please. Please, let me…” there is a panic to his words that taint his next actions, the intended chaste press of his lips scorching fierce with a ravaging hunger. You let out a startled gasp as his lips press aggressively against our own, tongue not wasting time and slipping into your mouth. Teeth clacking against your own as he furiously devours you, grip pulling and tugging you as close as he possibly can; hips rocking against your own as he looms over you, his hand sliding under your jumper, kneading the flesh with desperate, clawing touches.

He growls something feral against your lips, a breathless curse spilling like liquid lust as he pulls away, pants into the curve of your neck as he rolls his hips; a whine falling unbidden, uncaringly, from his parted lips. Muffled pleas scraping against your flesh as his teeth nibble and press into the sensitive skin there, threatening to bite and mark and bleed.

Whimpering you turn your head away, nuzzling weakly into the cotton of your hood beneath and taking what fabric you can between your teeth; cringing at the texture against your tongue and the weight of John above you, the wet drag of his own tongue flat against your throat and the leisurely grind of his hips against your own.

“I promise you, sweetheart,” your sides tingle at the new endearment, his breath hot and hushed against your ear, “you’ll want for nothing with me. I’ll provide everything you need and more. I’ll guide you,” a fractured laugh, a huff of delirium, “I’ll guide and lead you just as I’m supposed to; teach you how to say ‘yes’. You can’t fight fate after all, dearest; and _this_,” his hand under your jumper, stroking absently against your waist, moves to press lightly against your stomach; a trembling caress to an unspoken promise, “this is where our future lies.”

A sob shatters from your lips, cutting and splitting, as your heart ceases at the implication. Your now free arm falling over your eyes; a poor hiding spot as you grit and gasp in newfound anguish.

_This is really happening… fuck, this is **really** happening…_

All the while John comforts you. Gentle reassurances coupled with softened touches; carefully controlled. Pulling your arm away so he can see the way your eyes sparkle, submissive stars drowning beneath the waters of your fear, under the blood-tinged lights that illuminate you so prettily. The silent need you hold for direction and acceptance a sacred song that cannot be silenced nor ignored; and it is one that John intends to listen and dance to for longer than infinity.

And as you cry and whine helplessly beneath his disease, moulded and devoured into one, safe and secure and forever his within the ones and zeros, he buries you low within the gilded embrace of his corrupted Eden.


End file.
